Author Archives: classygallie

Don’t go home with strangers

If I wanted, my drive to work could be 29 minutes. Instead, it is 31. It could be an easy ride with minimal turns and country views. Instead, I go through two rotaries and pass a homeless man who hates me and a house so patriotic it makes me feel Canadian. I choose to take this detour because, if I didn’t, every day would be a reminder of the time I accidentally and aggressively stalked a family man.

Eh?

I played basketball from 4th grade through 11th. Before I go any further, I’d like to apologize to every b-balling teammate I ever had.

For the time I let the girl who looked like a coonskin cap score a three-pointer in the last second and win the game for her team.

For the time I innocently forgot our coach had Tourette’s and I laughed at one of his tics.

For the time(s) I wasn’t paying attention and not even mentally repeating the Sister Act II line “If you want to be somebody, if you want to go somewhere, you’ve got to wake up and paaaay attention” could get my head back into the game.

For the time I popped a lung huffing dog food and left the team without a timid forward-center for two weeks.

For the time I paid so little attention during my basketball career that I had to Google “forward-center”.

Seriously, ladiez. My b.

I liked (and like) playing basketball, and I actually wasn’t that horrendous of a baller — I’m just too weird to play team sports. For one, group camaraderie makes me feel uncomfortable. For another, when I’m not reciting Whoopi Goldberg quotes or urging myself to pay attention, I’m planning my next meal or considering giant uses for normal-sized things; there’s simply not enough space in my head to remember how to run plays or which basket is whose or that I’m supposed to wear the white uniform for home games.

The kid I had a crush on in high school, who played for the boy’s varsity team, once told me he liked going to girl’s games to watch me play. I was flattered until he followed it up with “When the coach finally puts you in for the last few seconds of the game you look so confused. You kinda just sprint randomly around the court. It’s very entertaining.”

What he said barely even upset me. It was true.

As you can imagine, I was not the most popular member of the team. I had some friends on the team, but on the occasions they invited me to basketball parties, I usually passed. The only time I didn’t pass, actually, was when one of the seniors said she was going to have a spaghetti dinner with whoopie pies for dessert. It was like my team and I were speaking the same language for the first time.

Who would pass up a party with this on the menu?

Obviously I accepted the invitation. Even more obviously, I didn’t know where the spaghetti host lived. And da most obviously, no one rode with me so I had to follow the convoy of carpoolers all by me lonesome.

Turns out, apart from being a terrible teammate, I also suck at following cars.

The girl who was directly in front of me was driving a big truck and I swear she was doin’ fifty-five in a fifty-fo. I couldn’t keep up! She was too fast (too fast), too furious (too furious), TOO FAST FOR YA’LL MANG.

WE DOIN’ A HUNDID ON DA HIGHWAY

Thankfully I was able to catch up to her truck at a four-way stop (the same four-way stop I should go through on my drive to work). She took a left and I followed.

And I continued following for 15 minutes. I continued following even after we passed the street I thought the spaghetti host lived on, and even after we drove out of the school district boundaries, and even after we drove out of the next school district’s boundaries.

After 20 minutes of following the truck — who, at this point, was the only vehicle on the road besides me — I started getting nervous I was going the wrong way. Actually, I was 97% sure I was going the wrong way. But my cell phone was dead and I was jonesing for whoopie pies in bad way, so I took the 3% possibility and drove with it. I drove with it until the truck turned onto a long driveway, and then I drove with it right up that long driveway.

As soon as I saw the house at the end of the driveway there was no longer any doubt; I was 100% sure I was at the wrong place. None of my teammates’ cars were there. I couldn’t smell any sign of marinara sauce, garlic bread, or Whoopi Goldberg. And, maybe the most telling of all, instead of a team full of basketball girls, there were two little girls and their mother. They’d been watching out the window for their dad to come home and when they saw his truck’s headlights coming up the drive, they ran outside to greet him.

Well, actually, they ran outside to greet their dad and the 16-year-old girl who had followed him home.

In response to their (first enthusiastic and then scared) greeting, I stepped out of my car, raised my hand in apology, got back in my car, and backed up the entire driveway. I didn’t say a single word to explain why I’d followed their dad home. I just raised my hand and drove away. I still didn’t know where the spaghetti dinner was, but I was able to find the way back to my own house.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get to work and I’m two minutes behind schedule.

30 second update

The tragedy of nudity

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Here is how the afternoon of the Saturday before last began.

I had an appointment for my first massage.

The address the masseuse, Josie, gave me turned out to be a grange hall. (For those who don’t know, that’s a community hangout for farmers.)

Due to the nonexistence of a parking lot, I parked my car on the front lawn.

The front door was locked and Josie was M.I.A.

Josie showed up one minute before my appointment.

She escorted me into her massaging room – a 10’x6′ room with painted-that-day walls.

Wrinkled and grungy purple sheets covered her massage table. And, I soon learned, were also to cover my naked bod.

Josie’s relaxation music sounded like bugs and people peeing.

Her lavender and lemongrass incense smelled like bugs and people peeing.

The children at the house across the street played a raucous game of hide-and-seek. Each new round of their game started with “Ready or not, here I come. I’M GONNA KILL YOU.”

I learned I do not enjoy massages.

Here is how the evening of Saturday before last ended (poorly).

Feeling pretty certain I had contracted a couple different communicable diseases from Josie’s soiled massage table, I ran home and took a shower. By the time I was done sterilizing my skin, it was nearly 6 p.m. Being freshly showered on a weekend evening is rare for me, so I decided to make the most of it. I called my friend DJ and planned to meet him at his big city apartment. We were going to have ourselves a Harry Potter marathon.

There are few things I enjoy more than consuming Harry Potter media – mostly, haunted hayrides, scaring people, and wearing sweatpants. When I got to DJ’s house and saw how close my friends Katie and Tyler lived to him, I saw an opportunity to do at least two of my favorite activities. We were going to scare them, and we were going to wear matching sweat suits while doing it.

I asked DJ to change into an outfit that matched mine – gray sweatshirt, black sweatpants, white T-shirt, and brown sandals – and to get ready to do some spooking. Lovely him, dude did just that. After checking to make sure our outfits coordinated well enough, we left his apartment.

After less than five minutes of creeping around the neighborhood we were at Katie and Tyler’s. At first I was just planning on knocking loudly on their door and running away, but when I saw their apartment I was overcome with inspiration. I told DJ we were going to the back door.

“They never lock the back. WE SLINKING IN.”

And we did. Just as I’d guessed, the back door was unlocked. DJ, convinced we were crossing a line and probably a law, refused to go past the mudroom they shared with their upstairs neighbor. I, on the other hand, strolled right in. The worst that could happen, methought, was that Katie and Tyler would be really scared. And honestly, that was exactly what I was aiming for.

For the first 30 seconds after breaking and entering into their house, I gave up on the hope that I’d scare them at all. DJ and I were laughing so much I didn’t make it more than two steps past their door before hunching over in a high-pitched fit of inhalation laughter. Sadly, two steps were enough to get a perfect view of the bathroom hallway. And, at the 31^st second, two steps were enough to get a perfect view of Tyler in all his glory. Clearly, he hadn’t gotten the matching outfit memo. He hadn’t gotten any outfit memo, actually.

Tyler was buck naked.

We made eye contact for half a second, Tyler said “Oh shit” in a very defeated, very violated kind of way, and I ran out of the house.

Later, when DJ and I got back to his place and I called them to apologize, Tyler told me not to be embarrassed and invited us back over for guacamole. We accepted, partly because if I didn’t it’d only make things weirder the next time I saw them, and partly because I really like guacamole.

Strangely, though, the first thing Tyler offered us wasn’t guacamole. It was pickles from an industrial-sized tub of pickles.

This gets graphic

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Before yesterday I’d only ever gone hiking once. It was last summer, it took 45 minutes roundtrip, and it ended with a trip to my favorite pizza place, Flatbread. Even as a total hiking n00b, I knew it was an easy hike.

So, when my friends Josh and Ben invited me to go on an “easy” hike with them, I knew their definition of easy was probably different than mine. Brothers, they spent their childrenhoods hiking around New England with their family. I spent mine eating tacos and peeing in kitty litter boxes.

I’d had fun hiking the first time I went, though, and I wanted to try it again. I knew their “easy” hike could take as much as an hour and a half, and would probably end with no more than a Domino’s pizza, but I decided to tough it. I agreed to go.

With only 15 minutes to get ready, I ran around my house grabbing anything I could possibly need on a hike. I threw on 1) a 7-year-old Maine Envirothon shirt, 2) a 3-year-old pair of running sneakers, and 3) one-size-too-small ankle socks. Then, I took my ripped North Face backpack and stuffed it with 1) two bottles of water, 2) a banana, an orange, an apple, and a granola bar.

Josh was driving, so I took the first few minutes of the ride to eat everything except the orange and drink one of my waters. Then it was time to ask about the hike.

Me: How this hike is?

Josh: Super easy! It’s going to be so fun! You’ll love it!

Me: I am sure, I am a very good hiker. How long it is?

Josh: Oh it’s nothing. Nine miles, methinks.

Me: LOL. You fib.

And he did fib. It wasn’t nine miles, it was ten. Ten miles of walking up and down a mountain.

At first, it wasn’t that bad — I was keeping up just fine, internally congratulating myself on my level of fitness. Then the five-minute mark passed. The following sentence, which I said after seeing the second ascent, summarizes the day.

“EFF THESE EFFING HILLS. SORRY.” (Edited for politeness.)

Those effing hills effed me for the next five hours. Here’s me when I reached the top:

(Edited to reflect my insides and stank and metaphorical tears)

Hiking is not fun. Being on top of the mountain is alright I guess, cause you get to see pretty views, but the parts that come before and after seriously blow. It’s just really really hard work. And, since I didn’t have nearly enough food or water, by the end I felt like I had a strain of ankle-spraining flu. And, since my footwear sucked, my feet felt like this:

The reason hiking boots were invented

I saw neat birds, lots of moose poop, bear poop, and strange green poop, though. Obviously I’ll be going again, cause that stuff is too good to pass up.

Anyone know what these guys are, by the way? I’m thinking mountain chickens.

They were doing the wild thang

A $200 dollar trip to the mall, AND I AIN’T BUY NOTHING

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I dropped my phone in the parking lot of the main mall of Maine, the Maine Mall, last Friday. I dropped it right on its gorilla glasshole face.

Mint condish!

I’ve been using iPhones for close to five years — at this point, I’m embarrassingly dependent on them. How do non-iPhoners check Facebook? Or identify songs they don’t know? Or make their pictures look old? Or sneakily take pictures of people while pretending they’re talking on the phone? I just don’t get it!

As you can imagine, I was upset when I picked my phone off the ground and saw how funkdafied its face was. I thought maybe I could save it by searching the ground for the pieces of glass missing from the screen. Turns out tiny glass shards are hard to find in slushy parking lots at nighttime.

After giving up that idea, I thought if I went to the Apple store an Apple genius would take pity on me. He’d be charmed by my sweetness, and intimidated by my budding mustache, and would switch out my phone for a new one on the cheap. Either my sweetness wasn’t charming enough or my mustache wasn’t intimidating enough, cause my smelly little genius wasn’t having it. The best he could do was slap a few pieces of packing tape across my screen.

Seriously. Dude slapped the crap out of my phone with tape.

Sent me home all doctored up

Now, I’m stuck with a cracked phone with tape sticking out all over da place. It still functions, kind of, but I can’t really use it to make phone calls. I’d like to buy a new one, but no way no how am I wasting valuable student loan moolah on this.

I bet I can make it until summer. Right?

P.S. Quick update on my goal to debt freedom: I paid off Credit Card #1, all but $31.49 of Credit Card #2, and paid back my mom for my new tires. One of my student loans effed me up by switching my minimum payment, so I think one of my payments was late. Dangit dammitall.

P.P.S. That new iPad looks sweet, huh? And to think, starting at only $499!

I’m bringing evil to tomorrow’s potluck

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Tomorrow my office is throwing a potluck party for a woman who’s transferring to another division. For the past few days I’ve been included in general “What are you bringing?” e-mails from my co-workers, none of which I’ve replied to.

I figured I’m young and ~~I’m black and my hat’s real low~~ I’m new to the office, it’s totally okay if I show up empty-handed. They already had sandwiches and sodas and clam dips and cookies and silverware covered — what else could I even offer? What am I supposed to bring? Vegetables? I’m trying to pay off my student loans, I can’t afford a $15 veggie platter! What is you, nuts?!

I planned to show up, eat, say goodbye to the lady, give her a pat on the noggin, and call it an afternoon. At least I planned to do that until about an hour ago… right until my sweetly selfless self got mixed up with a punk named Pinterest.

AND I'M LIKE, EFF YOU

Pinterest is social network that’ll teach you how to clean corn with a toothbrush, stick glitter on your eggs, and make your pretzels give birth to butterflies. It’s Real Simple meets Martha Stewart, and it makes me feel like a sub-par human lady.

Get your egg geodes out my damn face

I’ve had a Pinterest account for a while but I’d never really used it until tonight. I had a couple of recipes taking up premium bookmark space on my toolbar, so I decided to pin them as a means of saving them. I started clicking through some of the recipe pages and came across a recipe for cookie dough dip. I like cookies, I like dough, and I love to dip, so I checked it out.

Now dip baby, dip

I read through the ingredients and the instructions and it seemed super easy. I already had all the ingredients, it didn’t require any cooking, and the creator claimed it was a big hit at potluck parties. Just like that, I was convinced.

Here are the ingredients. See if you think anything sounds strange:

Chocolate chips

Brown sugar

Vanilla extract

Milk

Baking powder

Peanut butter

Oatmeal

Garbanzo beans

GARBANZO BEANS. An entire can of garbanzo beans. At first, I thought it clever and convenient.

“Garbanzo beans! Why, I just bought three cans of those the other day. What a lovely and healthy way to make chocolate chip cookie dough. Chocolate-Covered Katie says they’re delicious, and she never lies. I must make them now!”

And that’s exactly what I did. Even though I dislike oatmeal cookies, and I hate peanut butter cookies, I decided to make a dessert dish by mixing the main ingredients of each with a full can of garbanzo beans.

My cookie dough dip did not come out well.

It came out tasting like really gritty peanut butter hummus with a hint of vanilla, and it is just awful. There’s still whole chunks of garbanzos in there. Even the chocolate chips are gross.

What it's supposed to look like

What mine looks like. (I gagged when I opened up the Tupperware container to take this picture)

I devoted 20 minutes of my life to it, though, so I’m still going to bring it to the potluck tomorrow. I figure I’ll drop it off anonymously, serve some Saltines with it (you’re supposed to dip cookies or graham crackers in it, but I ain’t got the funds for that), and see if anyone eats it. My guess is maybe. My other guess is that they’ll hate it. My last guess is that they’ll be gassy for days.

(I’m just kidding… sweet gritty peanut butter hummus with chocolate chips is very popular around here. People are going to love it!)

Debt freedom: It’s finna suck

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Say hello to Mark. Dude mad poor.

via Huffington Post (http://tinyurl.com/86xvbfl)

Here is me. I owe money, as well. Unlike poor Jennifer and Marky Mark, my debt’s aiight.

Four years of college and I still don’t understand how mirrors work

Fifteen thousand dollars. Right on the line between fortunate and funked. Not crippling, not great, but manageable. Manageable enough, even, it almost excludes me from joining my peers in complaining about student loans. This displeases me.

Anyone who’s ever been on a sports team or residence life staff with me knows I love nothing more than complaining with peers. So, to secure my right to whine, I’m going to make my student loans unmanageable; starting today I’m going to pay off my loans in one year.

I’m going to try, at least.

DA BACKGROUND

Loans — student loans especially — are not fun. The payback period kicks in soon after graduation, right when bank accounts are hurting and job prospects are paining. And to make it all worse, that Sallie Mae is a real lady of the night. SHE A GREAT BIG HO. Or maybe she is, I don’t know.

Thing is, I’m not smart enough to figure out if my lenders are taking advantage of me. Or rather, I’m not patient enough. Finding out all that variable interest rate hooblah dooblah and loan fee goobleygook seems like it requires a lot of clicking and maybe even some phone calls, and homie don’t play dat. Plus, I figure if I sought out the bank, requested the loan, and signed the contract, it’s my own fault if I didn’t read the fine print. Hecks I barely read the bold print.

This is all I know:

I have three loans totaling $14,200. Additional debt includes:

Credit Card 1: $180 (Fancy pants and the like for work.)

Credit Card 2: $537 (Glasses are expensive, and so is babysitting your aunt’s dumb cats in Florida.)

Mammy: $444 (Tires. Thank goodness for a Mom loan.)

Evil arsehole clams: $110 (Dermatology co-payments up the wazoo.)

State of Maine: $100 (Car registration, dangit.)

In total, that’s about $15,600 in debt. I have a full-time job, a part-time job, and two generous roommates named Mammy and Pappy. Paying off my debt by next February may be improbable, but it’s not impossible.

DA PLAN

Da plan isn’t very complicated. I’m going to work a lot, live frugally, and pay off as much as I can each month.

WORK & GIGGLE LIKE A BOSS: I will work my regular job, do data entry on the side, and pick up any random gigs I can get.

LIVE LIKE A NUTSACK: I will do my best to make my own crap instead of buying crap from stores. For instance if I need a container for nuts, I’ll sew a handmade nut sack out of an old T-shirt. Or if I need a new toilet brush, I’ll make one out of household items — a broken shelf and toilet paper, perhaps.

I’ve done it before

BLEND AND BLADE BARELY: Other than gas, food, and presents for gift-giving occasions, all my money will go toward paying off my loans. Although I’m really into blending lately, so some of it might go toward a nice blender. For the most part it’ll just be student loans, though. Also maybe a pair of rollerblades. They look fun, don’t they?

Wish me luck!

P.S. I’ve never cared much about achieving personal goals, so if this sucks too much I’m probably going to quit. I’ll try not to, but know it might happen. Fair warning.

List of music videos at an amusement park or carnival or fair.

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If you did a Google search for “list of music videos at an amusement park or carnival or fair” before today, you’d be very disappointed with the results. I know I was.

Thanks to me, the world is now a better place. You’re welcome.

(You’re also welcome to comment with any music videos I’m missing; this list needs to be as complete as possible.)

Update, July 1, 2015: Someone did comment with several music videos I missed, so I’ve added them to the list. It’s amazing how many people Google “list of music videos at an amusement park.” It’s also amazing how terrifying most of these videos are.

Update, February 23, 2016: I continue to get comments with more carnival/fair music videos. While I love that this list is getting bigger, I feel like I’m duplicating efforts by adding them to the post. So, for the complete list, make sure you read the comments. More treasures reside there.

Jordan Knight – Give It to You
If there’s such a thing as falling in love with a person based on a facial expression, Mr. Knight invented it at second :52.

Ja Rule ft. Ashanti – Mesmerize
Ja Rule is such an adorable mouse. I’d go street for him.

Usher – My Way
Things I don’t like about this video: Usher’s painted eyelashes, Tyrese’s chin piercing, and JD’s armpit fuzz.

V V Brown – Shark in the Water
V V Brown should remake this with the original Degrassi cast (the original Next generation. I miss baby Drake and goth Ashley.)

50 Cent – Amusement Park
Cleverest rap metaphor of all time.

Mariah Carey – Fantasy
Yeaaahhhyuhhhh yeaaaaayeeeeeeee ooooooooooo yaaaaaeeeuuuh.

(These are the new ones)

P!nk – Who Knew

Avril Lavigne – Girlfriend

Beyoncé – XO

Seether – Remedy

Birdy – Wings

Coldplay – Magic

Block B – Jackpot

K. Will – Love Blossom

Poets of the Fall – Carnival of Rust

Finntroll – Under Bergets Rot

Alice In Chains – I Stay Away

Sunny Hill – Midnight Circus

B.A.P – 1004(Angel)

Akdong Musician(AKMU) – GIVE LOVE M/V

Justin Timberlake – Mirrors

Nine Inch Nails – Starsuckers, Inc.

Nightwish – Storytime

HI SUHYUN – ‘나는 달라

(Update – September 28, 2015)

JoJo – Baby It’s You

(Update – December 29, 2015)

Melanie Martinez – Carousel

(Update – February 20, 2016)

Krewella – Enjoy the Ride

It’s me, the D.O. double gizzle.

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I’m not that good at drinking.

By that, I mean I’m not that good at drinking alcohol. Actually, I’m not that good at drinking anything, but I’m an especially bad boozer. I don’t booze well.

It’s not that I drink too often, or I get too aggressive or too emotional when I do. If anything, I’m not practiced, aggressive, or emotional enough. The real problem is… when I drink… I…

Turn into Snoop Dogg.

Two sips into a glass of Nuvo, and I’m Snoopier than Tha Doggfather himself.

Me last Friday

I start rapping.

The first night I ever got certifiably crunked, I freestyled for my entire family and my brother-in-law’s family, who I’d never really met before. Fortunately, my sister filmed it and put it on Facebook. Unfortunately, I’m not going to share it here because 1) I don’t know how to download videos off Facebook, and 2) It’s very rather shameful. I will share my best lines, though.

“I found crap on my face. I’m like, am I in outer space? I’m confused. Where’s this dude?”

“You’z a Pokemon. You’z a fool, mon.”

I adopt a limp.

Upon leaving the bar, I often begin walking with a gangsta lean. I suffer from a bum knee that only ever flares up after a drink or two. It’s a serious ailment, belee dat.

I become obsessed with blunts.

Not blunts made of the marijuana! What do you think I am, a weed criminal?! I get obsessed with Phillie blunts, a perfectly legal, perfectly awful, cigar.

I became obsessed with Phillie blunts last New Year’s Eve. After getting stuck with a pack of them at a Christmas party Yankee Swap, I thought it’d be a nice gift to bring to my cousin’s New Year’s Eve party.

A few minutes before midnight, and after a few drinks, I decided it was time to get to Phillie blunting. I had no intention of smoking the cigar — I’d barely ever even seen one up close — but I thought it’d be fun to light one. The flame had yet to touch the tip of the cigar before I started dry heaving/convulsing. I thought cigars would taste like Cuban sangwiches or grape leaves or something. I was wrong; they taste like straight lung venom.

They look like hotdogs

Now, I bet you’re thinking, “Snoop is far superior to you! If drinking makes you act like him, then BITCH WHY AIN’T YOU GET SO THROWED EVERYDAY?”

I’ll tell you why I ain’t get so throwed everyday. Even though Snoop Dogg is a much better person than I am, strangers don’t seem to appreciate when I take on the persona of a 41-year-old former Crip.

Cab drivers don’t like when I accuse them of “trippin”.

My peers (other 41-year-old former Crips) don’t like when I introduce myself to them with complicated handshakes.

Bartenders of fancy nightclubs don’t like when I order a gin and juice and then don’t know what kind of juice I want.

And I don’t like the thought of me drinking enough to start acting like this:

Every time a dog pees, I cry

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Last weekend I was in charge of taking out the dog. For the most part, whenever Chico started creep-staring with his monkey eyes, it was my duty to take him outside for a whiz. I’d gear up in the family dog-walking outfit — long coat, stupid hat, flashlight headband — and take the little muttdogger out. And boy, ain’t it a hassle in the assle!

For some reason, taking out dogs is the most difficult of all household chores. It’s different than dog walking — dog walking is voluntary and pleasant. When I feel like walking the dog, I’m happy to strap on a coal miner’s headlight and go for a stroll. When I’m on the couch in a bathrobe, yelling at Jenelle Evans that I seen her with Kieffah, and Chico starts scratching at my eyeballs, dog walking is neither voluntary nor pleasant.

Only people who watch Teen Mom 2 will appreciate this video.

I was going to do my own impression's of Jenelle's mom, but it came out way too disturbing. Enjoy this lovely picture instead!

I think, in part, it’s Chico’s fault. He’s real picky with his pooping, so a quick trip outside ends up being a 20-minute search for the perfect patch of snow. Plus, sometimes he fake limps, going as far as walking with only three legs. The vet’s checked him out and said he’s fine — he really just pretends to have a bum leg. Do you know how embarrassing that is? Especially if we run into other dogs? It’s like making fun of an amputee! He’s sick!

Look at that devil!

My past experiences are also partly to blame for my hatred of taking out dogs. Just one past experience, really.

It happened when I was 13.

I had just gotten home from a long day of the 8th grade. I was pretty stressed out from having to wear jeans all day, so I changed into some ripped boxer shorts, grabbed a snack, and turned on the TV. I was about halfway through a bowl of shredded mozzarella cheese and an episode of Jett Jackson when our then-family-dog, Halle, started a-whimpering. Girl needed to pee.

Even though it was the middle of winter, I threw on a gross old barn coat over my boxers, my favorite pair of backless slippers, and headed outside with Halle. It was below freezing, but I felt fine. So fine, in fact, that when Halle walked across the driveway, into the yard, and up onto the two feet of crusty snow, I followed along. It was like walking on water, except even cooler because it was fragile ice instead!

Fun fact: I've had these slippers since 3rd grade. They've fit me perfectly every year since then. They're tied with 9 other objects on my "Top 10 Favorite Object List."

I walked about five steps before da inevitable happened: my right foot crashed through the ice and into the snow, cutting my bare leg on the way down. Not wanting to keep it there for long, I tried lifting it out. Unfortunately, while doing that, my other foot crashed through the ice, too.

In the confusion of having very cold, very hurty feet and legs, I dropped Halle’s leash. Apparently a dog leash is less heavy than a chubby 8th grader, because it slid across the ice and down the little hill in our front yard and (kind of) wrapped itself around a tree.

I guess slippers are less heavy than chubby 8th graders, too; the next two steps I took resulted in the loss of both slippers. I had no pants, no leash, and no shoes. All I had were some bloody feets and a steady stream of drive-by spectators. And some tears… had a a fair amount of tears, too.

BRB. Chico needs to whizzle.